Angry Fat Pony

I'm in a crappy mood today.  I know, this is, like, breaking news.  After a couple rounds with Ass Kicker, my knees hurt super bad.  This makes me angry and depressed.  I try and make changes and the universe is against me. I'm totally pissed off, which, while better than being pissed on, it's still piss.

You know how some people might go home and kick the dog?  Not me, I kick skinny people. Case in point, I walk past this little thing, let's call her Metabolic Barbie.  She's had two kids. She's tiny and cute and perky and she was eating fast food at her desk.  I walked up to her and said, "I hate your guts, and let me tell you why.  You have babies, you eat fast food and you have crazy metabolism and I hate you.  It's people like you that make me crazy."  She just laughed and said that she had a chicken sandwich.  Like that's what is keeping her thin. Yeah, what about the fries and soda?  Skinny bitch.

Then, another one of our skinny gals, Lotion Barbie, sends out an email.  Turns out someone stole her lotion. Apparently, it's expensive, but she says she won't be mad as long as it is returned.  I sent her an email back that said the following, "I like your attempt at remaining friends even after the theft. What if someone like me, that has a large area to cover, took it?  That 17 oz is going to go fast.  I wish you the best of luck with your lotion recovery. P.S.  It wasn’t me.  I’m pulling for you that a skinny girl “borrowed” it." 

It  appears I am waging war on skinny girls, but fear not, I believe in equality.  I was talking to Alligator Horse Guy and it turns out that he is doing P90X, but that he does allow himself to eat "Fourth Meal" at Taco Bell.  I cursed him and his man metabolism.  Bastard.  Don't you dare be a guy and talk to me about porking out at "The Border" and then telling me you know what it is like to lose weight.  Don't even try it.  With man metabolism, every time you even look at a piece of celery, you don't even have to eat it, you lose five pounds.  Don't even deny that you don't.  

Then, a group photo is taken today of all the managers and lead reps and when I look at the picture, you've got High Heel Barbie standing there, legs up to her neck, high heels and she bends her knee and looks all cute, just like she learned on America's Next Top Model or Cosmo or whatever.  Then Cross Fit Crazy is hiding in the back because he doesn't want his in-shape, well dressed body in the picture.  He looks like a creepy guy that just wanted in the picture.  Then, various other people are in weird poses.  I pulled up the picture on my computer and proceeded to mock everyone for their facial expressions, arm and leg placement and their attitude.  No one was safe today.  No one.

My friend Valerie's daughter came in to visit today and I saw her walking in from my vantage point.  I instant messaged Valerie and said, "Hey, I just saw a fat girl and a kid walking in, I think your daughter is here."  Mind you, her daughter is pregnant and looks great, but I "affectionately" referred to her as the fat girl because I'm mean.  I'm a hater.  That girl is going to crap out a baby and look just fine.  Not me.  I might crap out a taco, but I'm still going to be a fatty.

This is clearly why I need therapy.  I tried to find a therapist this week that specialized in weight loss and depression and grief counseling.  Surprisingly enough, eventhough America is full of fat-asses, there are not that many out there that specialize in weight issues.  I finally find one and call her.  Turns out she has a waiting list.  Yep, all the other fatties got to her before me.  Looks like I am S.O.L.  I'm on the waiting list though, so as soon as she gets one skinny and cuts her off, I think I'm in.  I'm number five on the waiting list, so I have to hope that the other fatties give up hope, die or find another solution.  Fingers crossed.

Anyway, I guess that is enough hostility for today.  I'm thinking about changing my blog to Angry FAT Pony. Yes?

Cassondra vs. Pranx...

The sun finally made an appearance today.  Nice of it to show up.  I decided in honor of what I call "summer snippets" I'd wear a dress today.  It's a long, summery dress. I wanted to make sure I had things under control, so I put on my Spanx to harness the belly and give my thighs some sort of structure.  And, in the defense of Spanx, I should say, these were not actually Spanx brand, they were some off-brand that I like to refer to as "Pranx."  The longer I wore them, the more they started to mess with me.  The belly part would slide down, then the legs would ride up.  I slipped into the bathroom a few times to adjust it.  This contraption was making me angry.  Ever have one of those old style, pull down shades? You pull it down and allow it to catch and it stays.  And then when you pull on it a little and it goes all the way back up.  Well, that is how my Pranx were working, except they weren't staying anywhere.

Finally, I'd had it.  The right leg was rolled up at this point.  Previously the left leg had been hiked up into my crotch.  I don't know why I do this to myself.  It isn't like I looked like Cindy freakin' Crawford with this on.  Like I turn into a super model or something and then *poof* back to Fat Albert.  I walked into the bathroom and took them off.  I thought about keeping them and then I thought, why?  So they can screw with me on another day?  No, they were going in the trash.  I could have just hung them on the back of the toilet, which is apparently customary at my work place, but I like to think I have some basic manners, so I put them in the trash.  I looked in the mirror to see how I looked without bondage.  Luckily, the flowers and bling of the dress were distracting.  For just a moment, I let my belly all the way out, arched my back and rubbed my belly.  So this is what it would be like to be pregnant.  Everyone would think my round belly was cute, they'd pet it and poke it.  Actually, no they wouldn't, I'd punch 'em in the guts if they did.  That's rude.  Anyway, the thought crossed my mind that I could just tell people that I was pregnant, but then what happens after nine months?  Do I tell them I am retaining the baby? 

I decided to leave the bathroom and pretend I didn't feel half-naked.  I mean, I wasn't commando or anything, but still, the absence of the Pranx made it a little weird.  I should write to those Pranx people.  What are they thinking?  And that size two girl that is on the front of the package wearing them, what the hell is she doing even wearing Pranx?  Seriously?  The three fat cells she had were being bad?  I bet her Pranx never budge.  Now, you go putting some fat girl on the package with a slightly subdued waist and thighs begging to be released and THAT is truth in advertising. And, if we pan up to the girls face, she has anger in her eyes and tension in her lips.  She is every plus size girl telling the true story.  But no, you've got freakin' Kate Moss showing us how it's really done.  I'm over it. 

And that completes today's edition of "Cassondra shares way too much."

The End.

OH...MY...GODIVA!

I wasn't super excited about a Monday, I never am.  However, today seemed calm.  I packed my lunch, headed to work and prepared for my 11AM workout with Ass Kicker.  Work was just the side show.  My workout was the main event. It had been a tough weekend emotionally and I needed some focus.  And then, as it always seems to happen, the day went horribly wrong.

One of my best pals, Harley Babe, comes over with a fancy box and a card. She says she can't tell me who it is from but that she was told to deliver it to me.  I open the card and it was very sweet talking about how I was appreciated and this person just wanted me to know, blah, blah, blah.  It was unsigned, so I was still not sure who had given it to me.  The box was a Godiva chocolate box.  It was a 32 piece set of hand chosen Godiva chocolates.  Oh. My. Godiva!  Now what?!  Who would do this to me?  Who was going to tell Ass Kicker that I had approximately 3 billion calories worth of chocolate at my desk?  Against my better judgement, I opened it.  It was like the angels were singing, and then I started to hear that music in my head that one might hear in a porn movie just before clothes started coming off.  Oh yeah, baby, talk dirty to me.  It was 20 minutes before my workout.  I took one piece and then closed the box.  I would work that off at the gym.

I went downstairs and told Ass Kicker what had happened.  He cringed.  He was going to hurt me, I know it. He set me to work on the bike and as he walked around behind me, he laughed.  I was wearing one of my husbands old shirts that says, "Whatever you do today will burn your ass tomorrow." Ah, the irony.  Ass Kicker put me through my paces.  I was sweating, I was keeping my core tight (some of the time), I was breathing heavy, I was like a Biggest Loser contestant, minus the crying and apocolyptic realization about how I got to be here.  He was having me do all these strength exercises.  I had my toes stretched out behind me, I had my arms resting on the exercise ball, I was keeping my abs tight.  I think it was called a plank extension or something.  My arms were shaking, my breathing crazy and then, out of no where,.... I farted.  That's right, I had so much stress going on, a little squeak came out.  I guess we'll have to tone my butt muscles next.  I was pretty embarrassed.  Like Will says, girls don't fart and they don't go "number two."  As hard as I was straining, I'm lucky I didn't crap myself.

I finished the workout and headed into the locker room.  Oh, good, just in time for all the gym barbies to come in and get ready for their spin class.  So, I'm trying to dry off and get my FCD on and have a girdle rodeo and all these skinny bitches are talking about how they hope it's a good workout.  I hate them.  Then, I look in the mirror.  It's worse that I originally thought.  My hair was ruined.  Oh well, damage done.

I returned upstairs and ate my tuna salad on crackers and an apple.  And you know what completed that meal...chocolate.  Finally, I had to leave my desk and go do some rounds.  I ran into Smart Ass McGee and he offered me a cookie.  I turned on him, "What is wrong with you people?!"  Sitting in the desk next to where Smart Ass McGee was standing was the man that was about to be revealed as the Chocolate Pimp.  It all came out that Chocolate Pimp was the one that got me all the chocolate.  I only had one choice. I called him a bastard.  His boss then provided him the pamphlet where he can call to report a hostile work environment.  Chocolate Pimp actually said to me, "I thought you could savor them, like have one every once in a while..."  I think my head spun around like three times.  I said, "LOOK AT ME!!!  Do I look like a one piece a day kind of girl?!"  While I appreciate his kind words, he just sentenced me to 3 billion calories that my body could ill afford.  I had to walk away.  I got back to my desk and had another piece.  Dumbass.

Pretty soon, it was time to go home.  I grabbed my chocolate and headed out to my truck.  I couldn't leave this chocolate here, I would be eating it all day.  I had to take it home so I could put it in the freezer and maybe have some for a treat after dinner.  This was the plan.  The plan was going fine until some mouth breathing, scum sucking, stupid bottom feeding piece of crap sat in his rice-burner car with his music and bass up so loud that the stuffed ponies ears started to bleed in my truck.  I was waiting for them to combust and just explode stuffing and glass eyes everywhere.  I look in the mirror and he is some stupid kid.  I wanted him to die.  At that moment I considered killing him myself.  We were sitting in a long line of cars at a metered light waiting to get on the freeway, so I could not get away from this asshat.  He is just sitting there bobbing his head and breathing valuable air that someone else could be using.  I wanted to back over him.  I wanted him to be hit by a semi.  I wanted him to have a slow, painful death.  Like, if he did die in a horrific accident, I would take the time to scoop a dead possum up off the payment and throw it on his body.  I hated him that much.  I wanted to get out, pull up my shirt and wiggle my fat belly at him and then when he started projectile vomiting at the sight, I was going to say, "what, you don't like cellulite?  Well, I hate your effing music!!!"

I don't know, it could have been the chocolate talking, coursing through my veins.  My fat cells were having some sort of rave in my belly.  My gall bladder was freaking out.  My heart palpitating.  Do you think you can O.D. on chocolate?  Then, to make matters worse, I'm almost to the freeway, almost merging and some stupid bitch in a 300 year old, jaundice piss yellow Chevy truck comes riding up next to me where there is no room.  Of course, I can't blame her because there is a butterfly balloon the size of effing Texas in her passenger seat, she can't see a damn thing and she seems to be fighting with the balloon.  Are you kidding me?  What the hell?

I ate another chocolate.

Listen up young people of America, I'm one package of Depends, a Life Alert and a cane away from an AARP membership.  I almost crapped my pants at the gym today.  If you think I won't hurt you, you are mistaken. 

Now, if you will excuse me, me and my chocolate are going to finish our night of unbridled passion and be done with it.  I mean, that is the best way to handle this right?  Get rid of the evidence?  Right?

Betty Buzz gets her groove on....

As long as I can remember, my Mom has had a special gift.  She is open and friendly and people like to talk to her.  Perfect strangers tell her their life stories, like, the personal in-depth stuff.  I am finding, in spite of my "non huggy" vibe, I too, have inherited this "gift."  I didn't ask for it, it just happens.  I often try and stop it, but people tell me stuff and I seem powerless to stop the ones that are hell bent on sharing.  Just today I had to hold someone at bay.  This gal came up that needed me to help her with replacing her lost badge.  I was a bit surly about it, but she wasn't afraid.  She isn't afraid of anyone.  In fact, she loves to hug everyone.  I didn't want to be hugged.  I saw the gleam in her eye, she was moving in. I thrust my hand out and said, "STOP!  Don't even try any form of public displays of affection with me.  It isn't happening in this area or any other, NO."  She stared at me, contemplating her options.  She backed away and agreed that we would not hug on this day.

However, my victory was to be short-lived.  I had no idea what the afternoon was about to bring. The phrase "ignorance is bliss" could not be more true as I reflect upon my day.  You see, today was what we call Vendor Day at work.  We have outside vendors come in to sell their wares.  My Mom decided to be one of those vendors and that is where the trouble started.  Mom sat there, all cute, her curly, clip-on pony tail, her little table set up with some jewelry and her bubble shirts.  As her and the other vendors waited for people to come down and check stuff out, they started to mingle and talk.  Mom made friends with a woman I shall call Betty Buzz. I came down to check on Mom and see how things were going and her and Betty Buzz were chit-chatting and looking at a catalog.  Mom introduced me as her daughter to Betty and apparently, that made me an instant friend. Betty wants to give Mom and I facials.  I said, I didn't really think so since I was pretty sure her product would not be compatible with my skin.  Betty was not deterred.  She showed me her catalog with all these dresses in it. I don't know what that had to do with the business she was here promoting, but ok.  She informed me the dresses would fit people of all sizes.  Wait, did she just call me fat?  Whatever, that was the least of my worries.  She turns the pages and stops on a page full of vibrators.  That's right, sex toys.  How did we just go from a facial to a floral maxi dress to getting your freak on? Or off...anyway, I said, "Wow, that's quite a catalog."  She says, "yeah, isn't it?  See this one? (she points to a purple one that is kind of in a C shape) I bet that really helps you find your G-spot."  I just kind of raised my eyebrows, gave it the tight-lipped smirk and said, "yeah..."  Betty wasn't done talking.  She says, "I have one kind of like this.  This one time I was laying on my waterbed and I hadn't put the sheets on yet, not sure why, but I hadn't and I was trying to find my G-spot.  I was moving that thing all around and I couldn't find the damn thing.  I mean I worked at it and worked at it and then finally...Ziiiiiinnnngggggg found it."  I looked at Mom, looked at Betty Buzz and said, "Ok, well, I gotta go."  I got in the elevator and stood there dumb-founded.  What just happened?  Instantly, I had a visual of the situation. NO NO NO....no, no, no.  NO visuals......yikes.  I started running through the scenario.  Who has a waterbed anymore?  Who? Does anyone? Do they even still make them?  And why didn't she have sheets on it?  Ew.  And why did I, a perfect stranger, have to know about her G-spot exploration?  I didn't sign up for this.

I talked to Mom about it as she was leaving and she advised me that after I left, Betty Buzz informed her where the G-spot is.  Damn, I left too soon.  But then Mom said Betty had to hug her before she left.  Ok, good, I left just in time. Mom says she still wants to give us a facial.  I'm scared, I'm not sure what kind of "facial" she is talking about.  Betty isn't touching me, this I know for certain.  The thing is, I'm not a prude. I can talk about sex.  Sex can be funny.  But usually this is a conversation I would have with Mom, or good friends and alcohol might be involved.  Talking about about Betty Buzz's deep dive into where her G-spot was wasn't what I had planned for my afternoon.

The rest of my day was pretty tame after that, I guess.  How do you top story time with Betty Buzz?  I don't think you do.  On that note, I'm calling it a night.

NO, that didn't feel good...

Today was my first "date" with Mr. Ass Kicker down at the gym since the dreaded toe surgery.  I kept forgetting about it during the day, and then remembering, and then forgetting and then it was time to go home, but wait, not for me, I needed to go to the gym.  I went down and presented myself to Ass Kicker.  I told him to make me do cardio.  I wasn't going to like it, but it needed to be done.

The thing about people like Ass Kicker is that they think exercise is fun.  It's not.  I guess if you are skinny, it might be some sort of hoot to dress in your cute spandex stuff and put your body through it's paces, but if you are packing some extra weight, it isn't fun.  If you are reading this and you are a fat person and you enjoy exercise, good for you.  You keep telling yourself that.  I, on the other hand, am going to bitch about it.

We did the recumbant bike, worked with a kettle ball, worked with some other basket ball looking thing, worked with some strappy things attached to the wall, worked with one of those big exercise balls and some tension bands.  I survived all that.  All the while Ass Kicker keeps asking, "how does that feel? Feel good?"  No, Ass Kicker, this does not feel good.  You know what feels good? Cold ice cream against my tongue as I lick it off the cone.  A nuzzle from my favorite pony, a massage, sex, you know, THOSE things feel good.  Sucking in my gut, aka "core" while I do a plank thing on the big exercise ball while my arms shake, my legs quiver and I feel like I am going to throw up, that's not fun. No, Ass Kicker, that doesn't feel good.

Now, it's time to cool down.  Down on the floor I go for stretching.  "Here, lie on your back, keep both shoulders on the floor with your arms out, now cross your left leg over your right leg, now take this rope and put it under your foot and now pull on that rope with your right hand and keep your left shoulder on the floor, now, how does that feel?"  It hurts! It hurts! It hurts! This does not feel good!  Now, switch legs.  I'm rolling around on the floor like a fat drunk girl that may have crapped herself and everyone is laughing at and that can't get a rope under the bottom of her shoe.  It was sad, but I did it. "YEAH!  Feel that stretch, good, huh?"  No, Ass Kicker, it does not feel good.  Then we get this heavy duty roller thing and put it under my calf and then I am supposed to push my self up with my shoulders and the free leg and roll the rolly thing back and forth under my other calf.  Ass Kicker said, "you don't like that one, do you?"  I shot him a glance and said, "no, it's not my favorite, can't say as I like it at all." 

To finish it all off, we put the rolling thing under my butt.  Ass Kicker says it works all the knots out of my butt and loosens up the muscles.  This is the only time in my life anyone has ever told me I have a tight ass.  I get up on this rolly thing and it's like I'm at the rodeo.  Scared, I struggle for balance, "Ass Kicker, I'm fixing to get bucked off the roller!"  He seemed unconcerned. Seriously, this rolly thing is only like six inches in diameter and I'm trying to get in position on it and it's trying to roll out from under me and my right leg is folded under the left leg and I can't get it out because I am so close to the ground and the rolly thing is like a greased pig at the county fair.  I almost threw my hand up in the air and tried to ride it for eight seconds, but thought I would try and compose myself.  I finally got in position on it and quite frankly,  I wish I had been bucked off.  It hurt so bad!  "Feels good, huh?  Were breaking up the fascia and working the knots out. It's like a deep tissue massage."  Have I mentioned I hate deep tissue massage?  It HURT.  I rode it out and finished. Cowgirled up. Workout complete.

Immediately following the workout, I had a 30 minute drive home.  During this time, my muscles had time to think about what had transpired over the last hour or so, and they were pissed.  I got out of my truck and oh yeah, they were mad.  I walked to the bottom of the steps into the house and my butt muscles screamed at me, "crawl it, bitch, WE ARE DONE!"  I sat there, contemplating a plan of action.  I mustered up all my big girl courage and put one foot up.  You know how it feels when you hit your funny bone and it hurts really bad, but also it makes you laugh and cry at the same time?  It was like that.  I'm going to take some meds and ice my knees and then pray to the gym gods that my legs don't call bullshit on the trip up the stairs to the bedroom tonight.

For the record, no, Ass Kicker, that didn't feel good today.

Rogue typing tester and why I hate my husbands guts

I like to start a Monday by first posting something snarky on Facebook to tell the world I am not happy it's Monday.  It's what I do.  I can't help it.  I think it really helps set the tone for the day and warns others to not poke the bear.  Usually, I do get enough space to ease into my day and eventually, if I choose to be pleasant, it's a win-win for everyone.  I think they appreciate it more.

It's unfortunate that the people that come in for typing tests do not get the "Monday memo."  This lady comes in and informs me she hasn't taken a typing test for over 30 years.  RED FLAG.  I would have hoped, when she shared that information that while she hadn't taken a typing test in 30 years, she may have practiced.  All hopes were dashed when she sat down and asked me how the keyboard worked.  What?  She knows keyboards and their functionalities can be different, so she needed to know if we were going to be using a data processing program to proceed and how the keyboard interacted with that.  What?  I said, "Well, it's a free internet testing site, there isn't anything special about what we are doing here, just typing."  She studied the keyboard with intensity an touched the keys gently.  Do I have to use the Enter key? she asked. I explained what she needed to do and that it was ok to backspace or correct errors if need be.  She informed me she would need to know the correct process to do that.  Should she use the backspace key? The insert? The tab key?  The delete button?  I found myself living on the edge.  I wanted to slap her silly.  I wanted to tell her if she didn't know how to operate the keyboard we were screwed.  I wanted to tell her to go home and knit something pretty for her cat.  She was seriously testing my patience. In fact, I looked around to check the room for cameras to see if I was being punked.  No such luck.  She then asked me for advice on how she should approach the test, like go fast and don't fix errors, or go slow and fix everything. I explained to her that I was not allowed to give advice and that she needed to do what made sense to her.  She seemed flustered.  She did manage to pass the practice test, but when it came time for her "real" test, the one that counted, she missed a word.  She just stopped and said, "What do I do? Should I fix it?"  I advised her it was up to her.  She was not pleased with me, I could tell.  She got a single digit score on her test, she failed. She wanted a re-test. I told her that was not possible. I get back to my desk and send the HR intern a nasty instant message asking who the hell sent this woman to me. Intern informs me she had just called him asking for a re-test.  Are you kidding me?  Luckily, he declined her request as well.  This woman was something else.  The intern said her resume made it sound like she was practically a rocket scientist.  Hell, I guess I need to spruce my resume up.  Why, I could be a New York Times best selling author, a psychologist, a nutritionist and chief engineer of bullshit!  I need to get that jotted down on a post-it for later....

Oh, and I should mention, I started my day by opening my email and finding a message from someone that we believe to be Captain America advising that the Bobba backpack was his.  He appreciated my concerns and advised there were no explosives in the backpack.  Well, I guess I can rest at ease that Captain America won't blow up the place and that he is at one with his Mountain Dew again.  He had a made-up email address and said "nice blog."  How did he know about my corn dog blog?  I think I am actually being punked now.  Anyway, all's well that ends well.  I guess now we know how Captain America stays fit.

Now, let me tell you about the best part of my work day. I'm entering vacation days for one of the managers into the vacation system when I decide to go check when my next vacation day is.  Yeah.  My next days off were last Thursday and Friday, you know, Friday, the day I was saying would be such a great day to have off...yeah, I worked those days, oblivious to the fact it was a scheduled day off.  What a dill-hole I am.  Who forgets their vacation days?  I guess being gone a month really threw me off.  I marched into my bosses office and said, "Do you have any idea how dedicated I am?"  He instantly said, "I know you are dedicated." I think he was preparing for whatever assault I was about to unleash.  I said, "I am so dedicated, I worked right through my vacation days!"  I just sat there, feeling robbed and stupid.  I mean, I still get the days, but still, I could have had Friday off and it was beautiful outside!  Well, better luck this week, I guess.

In other news, my husband is pissing me off.  And, I'll tell you why.  He is diabetic.  I have been begging him to eat better so he can lose weight and get off his meds.  I've been nagging him for years.  About a week ago I took him to my Dr. Diet Nazi and her Cheese Whore medical assistant.  They laid down the law, it was a sort of come to Jesus conversation.  Or, in Will's case, a come to cheeses conversation.  Anyway, he finally listened and he's been eating right and his blood sugars have been awesome.  To add insult to injury, he walks into the  bathroom tonight, after a full day of eating and drinking fluids and he steps on the scale and he is down about five pounds.  And, were not talking about his first thing in the morning, all naked weight.  This is his heaviest of the day.  So, that means, he really has lost more than five pounds and I HATE HIS GUTS. That bastard finally listens and then, oh, looky there, he practically farted and lost five pounds.  Are you serious?  This is proof that life is not fair.  I demand a recount!  I guess I'll just go forage on some lettuce and program my body to use the thigh master in my sleep and start taking laxatives.  That ought to make me lose four tenths of a pound.  I'm happy for him, but I hate his guts.

Stupid People, Corn Dogs & Butt Floss

It was a sunny, glorious Friday.  It was a day meant to be taken as a vacation day, but alas, I had typing tests to conduct, expense reports to do and, you know, just generally be amazing.  I was having a good hair day and my spray tan is still hanging in there, so you know, I was making the best out of the day.  I packed a healthy lunch and off I went.

It pretty much all went down hill from there.  I stopped and got a hot chocolate.  I don't know why I do that, my guts hate hot chocolate.  Unfortunately, my mind over-rules the gut.  Somewhere, Dr. Food Nazi and her assistant the Cheese Whore are getting a cold chill.  I just met with them yesterday and we had a plan.  Well, they had a plan and I nodded like a bobble-head doll.  This is a survivable minor set back. No worries.

Upon arriving at work, I opened my email and instantly went into a fit.  Someone was being stupid already.  It was only 8:05AM.  Stupidity doesn't know time or place, so I threw my little fit and carried on.  I can handle this.  One of the guys that was supposed to show up for an interview called to say he was under the weather.  Right.  He sounded fine to me.  He was under the weather all right, he was laying in the sun.  I got $10 bucks that says he was.  Loser. Then I opened an email from the personal trainer guy down at the gym, Mr. Ass Kicker, that I had arranged to start working with.  He is a mild mannered guy, overall, but he does know how to make me walk like the Hunchback of Notre Dame after a workout.  I told him Dr. Food Nazi wanted him to yell at me to make my work-outs more exciting.  He said he was going to start yelling at his wife over the weekend to prepare.  This guy is seriously dedicated.  I'm in trouble.

In other news, the corn dog backpack saga continued today.  The backpack that was abandoned with a ziplock bag full of corn dogs, a bunch of Mountain Dew and a boot-legged copy of Windows 7 was still hanging around, still stinking.  We moved it down to the front desk where the daytime security guard, Fortress Enforcer, watched over it and tried to find it's owner.  She was too scared to look inside herself.  I think the rotting, meat-like substance inside made her nervous.  What concerns me is, she is the security guard.  She is supposed to be defending me while I work dilligently all day.  What if those corn dogs or the Mountain Dew hold some sort of explosives inside?  What if that boot-legged CD has some sort of government information?  I just watched Ironman last night and I'm telling you, things get out of hand fast.  I'm going to have to ask Fortress Enforcer to step up her game if she is going to wear that gray poly-blend uniform with pride.  What is more disturbing is that Fortress Enforcer finally decided to throw the backpack away.  The janitor dude, which I shall call "Janitor Dude," put it in his trash can and then went on break.  When he came back, the backpack was gone.  We can't find a friggin home for this thing for DAYS and now someone takes it out of the trash?  What the hell?  Now I'm really concerned.  I think there was something sewn into the liner of the Bobba backpack.  I think it had national security in there and now the streets aren't safe.  The corn dogs were a distraction.  That backpack was a mule.  I know it.

The rest of my day progressed normally.  Thong Betty came over and we talked about my underwear being knotted and so far up my butt I was about to lose my mind.  This was figurative, of course, because I wear hipster briefs and they were fine.  I was just trying to really illustrate how crabby I was.  That's when Thong Betty told me I should wear a thong like her.  I can't wear a thong.  Who wants string up their butt?  I can't do that.  All day I would just be thinking about if that string is going to somehow cut me in half during the day, or if it's going to get stuck up there, or what if I pass gas and it's like when you are a kid and you put a fat piece of grass between your two thumbs and blow on it and it makes that farty-whistle like noise.  You ever do that?  Well, I have and I think butt floss, excuse me, a thong could have that effect.  I mean, I'm not saying I sit at my desk and fart all day. That isn't it at all, but what if?  You have to think about these things.  People do not think about the ramifications of apparel anymore.  This is how wedgies, camel-toe, nip-slips, blown out seams and unsightly panty lines happen.  And, you've seen the people of Walmart. This is why people abandon their underwear in public restrooms. I think about these things.  Look, I tried to wear a thong once.  I wanted to be "sexy."  Let me tell you, after 15 minutes, the only thing sexy about me was that I was ripping it off because it was making me angry.  Really angry.  Will says the pay-off wasn't worth it and he never wanted me to wear it again.  Just knowing something was lurking in my butt-crack.  It was too much.  I don't know how women do it.


Anyway, I guess that's it.  I better stop now, the thong thing has me all riled up.

Charlie Foxtrot and the Rotting Corn Dogs

Today can only be summed up as a colossal "Charlie Foxtrot."  Charlie Foxtrot is the code word for Cluster F*ck.  From the horrific traffic, to the stupid people that make me want to beat myself up so that I might not have to deal with them anymore. Add in that I am trying to eat right and lose weight and you have a woman on the verge of some sort of rampage. I don't want to spend a lot of time talking about work because it isn't a good idea, but suffice it to say that Clone Barbie was getting on my last nerve and I bit off a few heads. Boss #1 said, "Cassondra, you look so serious today."  Yeah, I'm seriously going to shove a file folder side-ways up someones back-side.


I was messing around on You Tube at lunch and played the following clip:http://youtu.be/Dg7X5_K7LhE  Unfortunately, since I have a new PC and the settings were not yet set, it played at full blast before I could stop it.  Woops. Oh well, at least I felt a little better after seeing this little chick threaten to kick everyone's ass.  It was shortly thereafter I assembled my pony minions in formation.  I needed back-up if I was going to make it through today.  By the power of angry pony...attack! 
Below:  The big pink pony is telling the other little minion ponies that "the man" is going down. All in favor, say "hay."

Then, I had two typing test guys that I was talking to and they kept looking at my belly while I was talking to them.  What the hell?  I mean, at least it wasn't my boobs, like the other day, but still, I don't like them looking at my belly.  I don't check out their junk, why do I have to tolerate this?  What ever happened to good 'ol eye contact?
Whatever.  

Now, I'd like to take a moment to talk about anti-bacterial wipes.  I would like to know what Office Max is  trying to pull selling a 70 count container of wipes for over $8.  The wipes are small and barely get the job done.  Like, I could use a tissue, blow my nose and then put it in the container and, presto, Office Max brand wipes.  I feel like I was held up at gunpoint and robbed.  I know it is the company policy to order this stuff from them, but talk about ripping people off.  It pisses this pony off.

In other news, I went into the bathroom and was looking in the mirror as I washed my hands (once again, if you are reading this and you are not a hand-washer, you are disgusting. The End.) and I noticed that my spray tan is starting to come down off of it's orange high.  Now, I have, like, dirt marks on my collar bone area and neck. That's nice, now I'm the dirty girl.


However, at the end of the day, the great news is, I am not the person missing my corn dogs.  That's right.  A backpack was found with the following inside: a gallon size zip lock bag full of corn dogs (corn dogs that were not exactly "fresh" shall we say), a whole compartment full of Mountain Dew and some boot-legged copies of some operating systems.  NEWS Bulletin: Whomever has lost this backpack is now crashing from no caffeine, they are working on an old operating system and they are hungry...I mean, really hungry.  If you, or anyone you know sees such a person, please send them to the lost and found.  What? You don't know where the lost and found is?  Not a problem, the corn dogs are starting to smell pretty bad, just follow your nose.  I sent an email out to the center letting them know that their rotting corn dogs were waiting to be claimed and, surprisingly, no one has shown up to claim them.


So, now, it's time to head home. I've just remembered that I need to get fuel in my truck since the dinger thing went off as I parked here at work this morning. Totally ruined my buzz.  Guess I'd better get moving.

Eat your heart out George Hamilton...

To tell you about today, we must begin with yesterday.  Yesterday, I was over at my good friend, Hearty Babe's, house.  Her daughter was throwing a birthday party for her little boy.  One of the cutest boys ever, by the way.  Anyway, she does spray tanning on the side.  I asked her if she was still doing that.  She said yes and asked if I wanted to try it.  I said sure, but that I was worried about turning orange.  She said, "you won't turn orange."  I say these words in quotation marks because my dear friend, whom I shall now call Spray Tan Barbie was not completely correct in making that statement.  I can't say much about it because, afterall, she took a bullet by standing in front me while I was in nothing but my skivies and airbrushed me.  She didn't throw up or anything.  That's bravery, and for that, Spray Tan Barbie, I salute you!  I did all my poses and she sprayed everywhere. She didn't spray me a six pack on my abs, but she did spray the existing keg that was already there. She said if I wanted to come back so she could spray my "girl parts to match" we could do that. This is true friendship.  I mean the list of people that are willing to spray tan my hoo hoo is short.  Really short.  I mean, I guess I haven't really asked a lot of people, but I think if I did, the list would still be short. Anyway,  I didn't really see the purpose in that, so I declined. It isn't like anyone is going to see my undercover girl parts.

So, the parting instructions last night were, "Don't touch yourself a lot."  Ok, well, I could make any number of inappropriate comments here, but I did tell her, "Well, I don't really know how I am going to keep my hands off myself, but ok, I'll try."  As soon as I got home, I went to bed and the first thing I could not resist doing is making myself a "Cassondra Blanket" and attaching myself to Will's side.  HA!  Take that pasty white boy!  I held on like it was a rodeo in spite of his attempts to peel me off.  By the time I was done, mission accomplished, he had spray tan boob and belly marks on his belly.  Mean? No.  Funny? Yes.  The thing is, karma does have a way of coming full circle because come morning, I woke up and found the palms of my hands to be dark orangey-brown and white hand prints on my belly.  Apparently, while sleeping, I put my hands on my belly.  This is exactly the kind of thing Spray Tan Barbie advised me not to do. 

I went down and took a shower and I thought, okay, this is okay....it's kind of orange, but kind of really tan, I'm tropical. I"m not George Hamilton, but I'm not a Tahitian beauty either.  I considered covering up as much as I could and then I thought, no.  If I can rock this fat body on a daily basis, I can rock this fat orange body.  Own it!  I put on a nice off-white, knee-length linen skirt and an off-white top with short sleeves.  I'm orange and I'm proud.  Actually, if you ever see orange sherbet ice cream with vanilla mixed in, that is what I looked like.  I was a creamcicle. 

To forewarn my co-workers of my new nationality, Orange, I posted the following message:
"spray tan update: I am from the villiage of Tonga Tonga. Do not be afraid. My orangey skin is normal...and no, the splotches on my armpit and boobs are not disease. And, yes, I know my palms are orange, turns out I slept with my hands resting on my belly. Loofah, Lather, Repeat. LOL. Well, I had to try anyway, I don't think this body is meant for these type of cosmetic enhancements."

I arrived at work and did what any girl would that wanted to hear the truth, I went straight over to my gay friend, File Bitch, and asked him point blank, "Am I orange?"  Without hesitation, without considering me at all he simply stated, "Yes."  Others came over to see me and said, "Wow, you got a lot of sun." Okay, first, we all live here in the same area, where exactly do you think I got that much sun on an overcast weekend?  Boss number one said, "you've been spending a lot of time on the beach."  Yes, because that is where I hang out when it is 55 degrees outside in my fat girl bikini.  I said, "no, I was spray tanned."  He looked me up and down.  I said, "I know, I'm orange."  He looked up and down again and said, "I don't think you look orange."  His lips said no, but his eyes said yes.  Oh, well.  I rocked it. Not everyone can.  Orange isn't for everyone.  Three different people thought they were hilarious and called me an Oompa Loompa.  For this, there will be a price, but at a later date.  Foolish people.  One of the guys that came in for a typing test stared at me a lot.  Mostly at my chest. Dirtbag.  That's okay because the whole time he was talking to me I was staring at that ugly, huge mole under his nose.  No one that is tall, hairy, weird and smelly can work a mole.  No one.

One person said to me as I was leaving, "if you were nervous about being orange, you sure wouldn't know it with that outfit.  You just put it all out there."  That's pretty much what I do, put it all out there.  Take it, or leave it, you're getting it.
 

Lotion fail & Dr. Food Nazi

I'm angry today.  Mostly at myself, but also at a few others. Today's plan was to go to take Will in for a consultation with Dr. Food Nazi.  It's time to stop screwing around with this diabetes thing and get it under control.  I told Dr. Food Nazi that the reason for the appointment was to have a "come to Jesus" meeting with my husband.  I don't want to see him coming home with any more empty Slurpee cups.  The doctor has been helping me with my diet, so I'm hoping she can help Will. 

On the way to the doctor, I wanted to stop and get some new lotion from Bath & Body Works, which is in the mall.  First of all, I'm pissed off because all my favorite scents are either discontinued or only offered seasonally.  Seriously, when is there a season that cucumber melon is not appropriate?  It's a staple.  But no, Bath & Body feels they need to try new scents.  Look, I'm old and set in my ways and I have needs. In the spring and summer, I want cucumber melon and coconut lime verbena.  Is that so much to ask?  Apparently it is when you shop at Bath and Body.  You bastards.  I'll try your new coconut scent, but it isn't the same.  And I'll wear White Citrus, but I'm not going to be as happy as if I was wearing cucumber melon!  I don't know how I am going to get out of the bed tomorrow knowing that right out of starting gate any hope for fragrance happiness is diminished by a good 95%.  You know, it is one thing to be fat, but sometimes, if you can smell good, people can at least think as they walk past you, "that girl needs to slow down on the donuts, but damn, she smells beautiful!"

So, I had my new lotion, I was ready to leave the mall and be free from spending and eating temptations. However, right across from Bath & Body Works is a new cupcake place called Bite Me.  Will and I started to walk past it, but then we looked at each other and we knew we both wanted a cupcake.  Cupcakes are not on my approved list of acceptable foods.  The voices in my head (and there are many) argued, but I could tell Will really wanted a cupcake.  This is the problem with us.  We cannot be trusted.  If one of us wants something, the other is pretty much powerless to say no.  And, let's be honest, it isn't like I didn't want one.  Two cupcakes and $7 later, we left the mall.  Bite Me, indeed.

Once we got to the truck, we agreed, Dr. Food Nazi didn't need to know about the cupcakes.  It was our secret.  We drove to the doctor's office and everything was going according to plan.  The medical assistant then advised we needed to take Will's blood sugar.  Ut-oh.  The jig was up.  His blood sugar was 173.  Dr. Food Nazi came in and asked what Will had eaten today.  "Nothing, just coffee."  I sat there nervously and looked down.  Will and I couldn't even look at each other.  We knew we were screwed and we both looked guilty as hell.  Dr. Food Nazi looked very concerned and continued to question us.  Finally, we caved and spilled the truth.  We both got a stern talking to and a meal plan. By the time we left the doctor, we were both very clear on what the expectations were.  And we were committed.  We were going to get our crap together and get serious.  I've been struggling to get back on track after the toe debacle, so this will be  good when Will is on the same page as me.  Right?

It was approximately one hour before the first major cheat occurred.  In my defense, Will started it.  We stopped by my Mom's house and there was brownies.  Will started snacking on them.  I called him on it, he was unaffected.  So, then I had a small piece.  The rest of the afternoon kind of followed suit.  We are going to die young and fat.  I think this much is clear.

So, as I sit here feeling bad and wondering why I can't behave I wonder if I should just get to that place where I just give up and let it be.  What's wrong with fat girl pants, bat-wing arms, multiple chins, belly buttons that can double as measuring cups if you get in a bind, bad knees and a belly that you can sit your bowl on while you sit on the couch eating ice cream?  What's wrong with a fat infested liver?  What's wrong with an angry gall bladder? I could be one of those girls on the Tyra Banks show saying, "Big is beautiful!  I got more cushin' for the pushin'!  You skinny bitches are just jealous because of all these curves!" Or, I could be like the girls on the people of Walmart website, those people seem happy.  Clearly, they are eating mac n cheese and they are living proof that chemicals and carbohydrates might not be healthy, but a person can survive...until they die. If becoming one of the people of Walmart is my objective, now that is an attainable goal.  I can do that.  I just need a thong, a unitard, crop top, flip flops, some hair dye, velour pants with the word JUICY across the butt and a scooter.  I can even crap my pants (probably from too much processed food) and still speed across the store in my scooter and who is going to say anything?  No one. Instead, I'll get my picture taken and get on the website as a person of Walmart and then I will know, I've finally made it.  I've finally achieved my goal.  And, Dr. Food Nazi did say that we could achieve our goals if we just set our minds to it.  I remember her saying, "you can do this."  I think that applies to so many situations.  I'll just let her know I've changed my direction a little.

Here's hoping tomorrow will be better.  Tomorrow, I will put on mediocre smelling lotion, wear jeans that fit and have my protein shake for breakfast and things will be better.  And, if Will cheats, I'll punch him in the nuts.

The End.

Ol Reliable and the dead guy

So, I've mentioned in previous blog entries that Angry Pony has been in seclusion away from the road so that I can't see him for some time now.  I know he is with the other horses and that he is experiencing the joy of children giving him attention, but I miss him.  I think it is possible we have been apart too long, or maybe I need a new muse for my writing.  Tonight, on the way home, it came to me who my new muse is.  It is a horse in another pasture, a little closer to my house.  He has been in that pasture for as long as I can remember and he is old.  I mean, really old. He has a sway back and he is usually a little on the thin side despite good pasture and hay in the winter (how come I don't get skinnier as I get older?).  His coat isn't as shiny as it once was, his eyes are a little more sunken.  Will and I call him Ol Reliable.  Whenever we go by, we look to make sure he is still alive.  Like his presence affirms everything is okay in the world. 

The more I thought about my new muse, the more I think it is a good fit.  He's old.  I'm getting old.  His body ain't what it used to be, and hello, if you read my blog at all, you know that my body sure as hell isn't what it once was. Oh, it's still fat, but it doesn't work like it used to.  Ol Reliable likes to stand in his pasture with his head hanging low looking sad.  I could be Sad Pony instead of Angry Pony?  Nah, I can't give up on Angry Pony. 

Maybe I'm particularly drawn to old things today after the text message I received on my cell phone while at work.  I'm sitting there, minding my own business and my phone buzzes.  I look at it and it is from a number I do not know and it is a picture of some old guy lying in a hospital bed with a flower arrangement draped over his chest and his hand has been awkwardly placed over it.  He looks dead.  He might be dead.  If he is dead, why would someone take a picture of that and send it to anyone?  I sent a message back saying, "who is this?" I got a message back saying, "oops, wrong number."  Ooops indeed.  So, then, I start getting calls from people I don't know.  News flash, I have no information on the old guy being used as a decorative centerpiece for the hospital bed.

Then, I started thinking, what if this is like the movie Final Destination and I was somehow linked to this death? What if I cheated death today and death comes looking? What if?  You people know how my mind works, this could be bad.  I'm not trying to bring anything on here, I'm just hypothesizing about what the universe could be telling me. I'm going to have to be very careful the next little bit and keep my eyes open for anything that might kill me.  Wait, no, this won't work because almost every day I utter the words, "you people are killing me!" at work.  I guess if I haven't kicked it at work, I guess I'm probably safe.  Although, Will did make kabobs for dinner tonight and those skewers do look sharp.  What if I get up and walk into the kitchen, fall and then kabob myself?  My word, I'm not safe anywhere.  Damn the dead guy text!!!

I clearly need to sleep on this and maybe see how I feel after driving by Ol Reliable in the morning...if I make it through the night.

Not Angry Enough...What?

Today I was talking about how overall readership is down on my blog.  Not knowing if I've lost my touch, or if people are just busy, or what?  I know people all over the world have seen it, per my stat report.  I don't know if the people in Sweden or China or wherever  really do read it, or if they just run into it while scanning other blogs or what.  But as I was talking about it at work today one gal said, "Well, maybe you aren't angry enough.  You haven't been that angry lately."  I guess it's kind of true. Being in captivity and all, away from society.  And, some of what makes me really angry I can't blog about, but it did get me to wondering if Angry Pony has spent too much time out in the pasture away from the traffic.  Maybe, somewhere on the other side of the barn, where I can't see him, he has found happiness and that is channeling to me.  That little bastard.  I can't be Happy Pony.  This is an outrage!

As the day progressed, and as I worked on auditing some expense reports, I did start to feel Angry Pony festering inside of me.  I mean, it could have been gas from the potlucks happening today.  I did feel pretty bloated.  I was so bloated I had to take my watch off.  If you have to take your watch off, you are up sh*t creek without a paddle.  I was just waiting for my belly button to become an outty instead of an inny.  And the sad part is, I didn't even eat that much, but when you have been eating clean for months, you can't just revert to wicked ways without consequence.  There is no fun in cheating anymore.  Frankly, it pisses me off.  Like today, for example, it's friggin National Donut Day and do you think one person brought donuts in?  NO.  Not a donut to be had in that whole damn call center.  Never mind on any given day when I am behaving I am surrounded with the effing things.  Today I wanted one and nothing.  And, as if to add insult to injury, they are serving free Gyros.  What. The. Hell.  It's donut day, not gyro day!  I was complaining to one of my bosses about it and he says, "You don't need a donut anyway."  What?!  I said, "Did you just call me fat?" He seemed unaffected by my insinuation and said that no, he wasn't calling me fat.  It's like maybe someone (maybe the wifey) has picked a fight with him before.  He wasn't biting today.  He returned to the safety of his office.  No one tells me I don't need a donut.  No one NEEDS a donut.  Fat, carbs, sugar...LARD...with pretty sprinkles, a delightful concoction that is not needed...it is wanted. Right or wrong, the heart wants what the heart wants.

Anyway, I managed to muddle through the day without a donut and didn't take any hostages. Aside from railing on the managers about their expense report skills, or lack thereof, I got to call some candidates and arrange for interviews.  I'm constantly baffled by the "talent" we are reeling in. I called one person and the conversation went down like this (names have been changed to protect the stupid):
"Yes is this Jody Jobless?" 
"Who wants to know?"
 "Well this is Cassondra from the glass palace."
"OH, ok, then yeah, it's me, Jody."
I advise her of her interview time and start to give her the details, "...and bring a copy of your resume.."
She stops me, "oh, I don't have a resume, I just filled out that resume builder thingy on-line." 
I was beyond amazed and so I said, "Well, perhaps you can whip one up over the weekend, because we are going to need to review your job history and experience."
"oh, ok."

I sat there after the call thinking, this is the future of the glass palace.  May the force be with us, because at this point, that is all we have to hold on to.

Next week proves to be fun as we get to do typing tests and interviews and I get to be super admin again. Oh, and it is Spirit Week at work next week.  I think there is prom day, super hero day, pajama day, etc.  I can't conduct business in my pajamas.  We have a hard enough time getting people to dress appropriately, I can't have the the new hires thinking it's okay to wear sleepwear.  Anyway, I should have more anger for you then.  I'll try and ramp up the angry.  If it makes anyone feel better, I got really pissed on the road today at some guy that waited till the last minute to merge over into my lane, didn't use his turn signal and almost crashed into my front bumper.  I was pretty angry then.  He had a stupid bumper sticker that said Peacemaker.  Let me tell you something, dumbass, if you want to keep the peace how about using your effing turn signal?  I also got pissed at Email Nazi for stealing one of my desk ponies and putting it in his armpit.  Just as I dispatched Stilletto Barbie to "handle" the situation, miraculously the pony was returned.  I told her to stick one of her stillettos into one of his "hidey" places.  No one messes with my ponies.

Ok, that's all you get, I don't want to over do my excitement and not have anything left for next week...you know, now that I know I'm too nice.  I never thought I would hear those words.  I'm going to have to re-strategize my thinking about my attitude.  Clearly.